


A Fete Worse than Death

by Clueda



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 21:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5390696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clueda/pseuds/Clueda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Roarton summer fete is coming up. Someone’s got to do the face painting stall, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be Gary.</p><p>[post s2 happy fluffiness]</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fete Worse than Death

**Author's Note:**

> Set a few months after the events of s2e6, so spoilers from this point onwards if you haven’t seen that. This is basically the most AU AU you can get with this show; everyone’s happy and I’m ignoring the fact that Kieren appears to be re-humanising because I just need something light on plot and angst-less for once. The idea for this came from conversations had with former tumblr user doriangravy in a post-finale sadness-fuelled frenzy of fluffy headcanons to fill up the void left by the events of s2e6. This one's dedicated to you, doriangravy, wherever you are - doubt you'll ever read it, but it's down to you that it's in existence, so thank you.
> 
> Title inspired by [this post.](http://village-of-the-damned.tumblr.com/post/87537126392/ok-but-roarton-village-fete-is-going-to-be-a-fete)
> 
> [PS, sorry for all the death puns, I couldn’t help myself]

***

“You should do something for the summer fete, love,”

Kieren was miles away, six feet under in his thoughts, and didn’t hear his mother until Jem kicked him under the dinner table and he jolted back to the land of the living.

“What? Sorry,”

“Your mother was just saying you should do something for the fete,” his dad repeated in between mouthfuls of lasagna.

“Like what? I don’t think someone like me would be trusted with a float,” Kieren muttered.

“Hey, don’t be daft,” Steve dismissed. “It’d be fun,”

Kieren hummed a non-committal reply. He didn’t exactly feel like spending an afternoon on a playing field with people who looked at him as if he was something they’d just stepped in.

“Maybe you could do something with Simon,” Jem suggested. “Or Phil,”

It seemed as if his family wasn’t going to let the matter drop, so he conceded with a half-hearted, “I’ll think about it.”

***

“Stop fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting,”

“Yes you are – see, stop that!”

Simon huffed and obliged, sitting as still as he could. Two give-back bibs had been left in a heap on Kieren’s bedroom floor, along with two pairs of shoes, and the older man was sitting on Kieren’s bed while the younger stood behind his easel, paint brush in hand. The light of the setting sun pouring through the window was bathing Simon’s cover-up-less cheek in a golden orange, and Kieren was impatient to finish the painting of him before the night descended.

There was silence for a few moments, and Kieren regained his focus. The only sound was the quiet scratching of paint brush on canvas.

“Are you nearly done yet?”

Kieren groaned. “I’d be done a lot quicker if you shut up,”

Simon put his hands up in an appeasing gesture, but it had the opposite effect that he had intended, and Kieren shouted, “Stop moving!”

“I don’t know how anyone does this for a living,” Simon muttered after a few moments.

“Does what?”

“Life models, how do they do it?”

“Shut up, Simon.”

The silence returned, and after forty seconds of it, Kieren allowed himself to hope that Simon had finally shut up indefinitely, but –

Simon laughed.

“What?”

“I’m a death model, not a life model,”

Kieren rubbed a hand over his eyes. “And yet you’ve got more life in you than most life models,”

“Aww,” Simon crooned sarcastically.

“That wasn’t a compliment, that was a polite way of telling you to stop fucking fidgeting,”

Simon tutted. “Language,”

Kieren ignored him. He managed to complete half of Simon’s forehead before the other man spoke again.

“So, what’s for dinner?”

Before Kieren could shout at him, Jem called their names from downstairs.

Kieren didn’t look at Simon, simply opened the door and left the room, hearing Simon following behind. Kieren could imagine the smug smirk that would surely be on his face, and forced himself to calm down a little before he opened the door to the living room.

His mother was carrying a stack of plates, and Kieren rushed to help her.

“Thanks, love,” she said, smiling at him.

Steve entered from the kitchen, a pot of stew in his arms. “Could’ve used your help with this one, Simon,” he said, ladling the food onto the plates.

A few weeks previously, the Walkers had discovered that, despite not being able to taste-test his creations, Simon was a surprisingly good cook. Since then, Steve had been very eager to have him around for dinner, asking Kieren almost every night whether Simon would be joining them.

“Sorry, Steve,” Simon replied. “Kieren was particularly insistent,”

“The light was good,” Kieren grumbled.

“I don’t know, Kier,” Jem said slyly, “Maybe you’d be better suited to face painting,”

“What?” Kieren said, looking at the faces around him and seeing barely-held back laughter.

“I think you missed the canvas a little, son,” Steve replied.

Kieren picked up a spoon and peered at his reflection in the back of it. Smudges and flecks and spots of paint adorned his skin. He glared at Simon.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said.

Simon smirked. “Annoyed yet?”

Kieren continued to stare daggers at the other man while dipping a napkin in his mother’s water and stalking off to find a mirror. Before he could do so, however, Simon caught him by the arm and leaned in.

“Plus, it was kind of cute,”

Kieren heard his father choke on something behind him and fought the urge to laugh, instead huffing and pulling his arm out of Simon’s grasp and leaving the room.

***

Kieren rang the doorbell again. Fourth time now.

“Come on, Simon,” he muttered to himself, looking at the ominously-grey clouds gathering above the bungalow. There was movement behind the glass of the door, and then it opened, a half-asleep Simon squinting at the weak morning sunlight.

“Kieren?” he mumbled, stifling a yawn.

“As Amy would say, why are you still in your sleep attire?” Kieren asked, putting on a chirpy voice reminiscent of their absent friend.

Simon looked mightily confused, eyebrows furrowed.

“Never mind,” Kieren said, ushering Simon inside and following. “Get dressed – fete’s tomorrow, we’ve got preparation to do,”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Simon said, catching Kieren by the arm. “What are you talking about? Preparation for what?”

Kieren grinned at him. “I gave Philip a bell last night, said we’d do the face painting stall tomorrow,”

Simon groaned.

“Come on, grumpy,” Kieren said. “It’ll be fun,”

Simon considered him silently for a moment. “Fine.”

Kieren grinned and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“What do we have to do today, then?”

“Well, I was thinking we should go to the shop, pick up the paints, and then I’d need some test subjects,”

Simon whipped his head around. “I am not letting you paint my face.”

“I can’t just go into this thing blind,” Kieren reasoned. “I’ve never done face painting before,”

“So why are you doing it at all?” Simon replied, rooting around in his wardrobe for a jumper, no doubt.

“Because I will stop at nothing to stop at nothing to see the Ex-Twelfth Disciple of the Undead Prophet painted like a puppy.”

***

The day of the summer fete dawned bright and blue, the clear skies giving the usually bleak miles of farmland and fields and woods that surrounded the village colour and life.

Kieren and Simon made their way into the centre of the village. The main road had already been closed off to make way for pedestrian traffic, and the village green was beginning to resemble a fair ground, with tables and games half-built on the grass.

Philip was standing in the middle of the chaos, clipboard in hand, looking half nervous and half smug at his position of authority.

“Hey, Phil,” Kieren called out.

The man turned around. “Hello, Kieren, Simon,” he said. “Your stall’s over there, next to the jams,”

“Thanks,” Kieren replied. “Good luck with everything today, Mr Councilman,”

Philip didn’t reply, his sombre and a little confused eyes following Kieren and Simon as they walked over to their corner of grass.

Half an hour later, Kieren and, begrudgingly, Simon, had decorated their stall with bright colours and pictures and signs. Kieren took a step back and looked at their work with folded arms.

“It looks great,” a voice said behind him, and he turned around to see Jem.

He grinned. “Thanks – do you want to be our first customer?”

***

As the fete opened, Kieren was putting the final touches to his sister’s new face – a puppy, brown patch ringing an eye and a shiny black tip to her nose, smiled back at him.

She looked at herself in the mirror Kieren held up for her. “Have you ever considered art school?” she said seriously, and Kieren laughed at the joke.

“Go forth and mingle, Jem,” he instructed her. “Get us some publicity,”

Jem nodded, but furrowed her eyebrows. “Kier,” she began hesitantly. “Um, you know your…” she indicated vaguely at her own face. “…might not go down so well with some of the mothers of the kids from the Catholic school,”

Kieren sighed. He had spent an hour tossing and turning in bed the previous night, trying to decide whether or not to go to the fete bare-faced. He and Simon spent most days without make-up, and didn’t receive too many death-threats. He knew that the fete would attract people from other villages in the valley, however, who he knew to be less accustomed to their white eyes and grey skin. But that morning in the bathroom, he’d taken a breath, looked himself in the eye in the mirror, and had walked out without looking at the tub of mousse on the side of the sink.

“We’ll be fine,” Simon said softly. Jem pursed her lips and nodded.

“See you in a bit, then,” she said, and made her way out into the field.

***

Their first (proper) customer was Shirley Wilson, accompanied by none other than Doctor Russo.

“Surprise me,” she’d said, when Kieren had asked what she’d wanted, so he’d adorned her face with swirls of colour and sparkles, and she’d laughed approvingly when he’d finished.

Business was steady but slow after that, people from Roarton more than outsiders bringing their children to the stall. The sun moved slowly across the summer sky, the laughter of the kids and music of the regional radio station being the background to Kieren and Simon’s chatter.

“If you didn’t look so surly all the time we’d have more customers,” Kieren joked as Simon watched the festivities with suspicion.

Simon looked at the ground, then back up to Kieren. “I’m just – I’m so used to being the target, it’s – ”

“Hey,” Kieren said gently, stepping over to him. “It’s okay. I get it.”

“Just not used to being…”

“Yeah, I know,” Kieren said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “But we’re safe, I promise.”

Simon gave him a quick smile, and Kieren leaned in.

The kiss was brief and chaste, but enough to make Kieren thank his lucky stars for his inability to blush as a voice cleared its throat.

It was a mother, a woman Kieren didn’t recognise, a small boy, holding her hand.

“Hello,” Kieren said to the woman. “Hello,” he said, to the boy, bending down a little so as to bring himself to the boy’s eye level. “Would you like your face painted?”

The boy made eye contact and something in his expression changed. He drew himself closer to his mother’s legs.

Kieren could feel Simon’s eyes on his back, and the mother’s on Simon. Kieren froze. He didn’t know what to do. He knew it was his eyes that were scaring the boy, and he could sense the mother on the verge of dragging the boy away, when Kieren heard movement behind him and turned to see Simon walking out from behind the stall.

The man approached the boy slowly and crouched.

“Hello, young man,” he said, his sing-song accent soft and soothing. “I’m Simon. What’s your name?”

The boy glanced up to his mother before answering timidly. “Jack,”

“Hello, Jack,” Simon held out his hand. “Nice to meet you,”

Jack hesitantly held out his own hand. Simon shook it.

“Why is your hand cold?” Jack asked.

“ _Jack_ ,” his mother hissed. “Sorry,” she said to Simon.

“It’s okay,” Simon said to the woman, before turning back to the boy. “It’s because I’ve got something called PDS,”

“PDS,” Jack repeated to himself.

“It means that my heart doesn’t beat, like yours does,” he explained. “See?” he said, plucking Jack’s hand from his side and gently placing it on his chest. He positioned Jack’s other hand on Jack’s own chest. “It means my body doesn’t heat itself up like yours does,”

Jack nodded, hands falling back to his sides. “Does it make your eyes like that, too?”

Simon nodded. “Before I got PDS, my eyes were your colour,”

Jack looked up at Kieren. “Does your friend have it, too?”

Simon smiled. “Yes, my boyfriend does have PDS. And he’s also a very talented artist, and he’d love to paint your face, if you’d like him to,”

Jack nodded again, a vigorous gesture that shook his whole body. “Can I be a tiger?”

“Of course,” Kieren said, walking out from behind the stall to join Simon. “Come and sit over here, Jack, and you’ll be a tiger in no time.”

Jack followed Kieren excitedly, but before sitting down, turned back to Simon, worry creasing his forehead. “Simon…?” he said.

“What’s the matter?” Simon asked.

“Can you go first?”

Simon shot Kieren’s mischievous grin a quick look of warning before agreeing.

Jack and Kieren agreed that a butterfly would suit the ex-disciple best, so Kieren sat opposite his boyfriend and got out his purple paints.

***

The rest of the afternoon passed in the blink of an eye. Jack was over the moon with his new feline features, and a couple of his friends saw him being painted, so came over to say hello and become a pirate, a cat, and a panda.

Simon looked ridiculous and beautiful with Kieren’s butterfly glittering on his face. He greeted each new child whose smile fell away at the sight of Kieren’s eyes as he’d greeted Jack – quiet, gentle, open, and Kieren could feel himself falling in love a little more with each “My name’s Simon. What’s yours?”

The evening painted the sky golden, purple, blue as deep as the ocean. The fete drew to a close with the reading of the tombola winners. The remaining fete-goers crowded around the tombola stall, but Kieren and Simon stayed by their own to clear up.

Kieren paused while putting away his paints and watched the man who was scrubbing at the table with a slight frown on his face.

“You were brilliant today, Simon,” he said.

Simon made a dismissive noise, and Kieren put down the paints and walked up behind him, wrapping his arms around Simon’s middle.

“I mean it,” he said into Simon’s shoulder. “I didn’t know you were so good with kids,”

“I spent a lot of time in nurseries when I was younger. Lots of cousins,” Simon explained, turning around in Kieren’s arms so he was facing him.

“Well, it made me very happy,”

“Oh, did it? Don’t tell me you’re feeling all paternal,”

“No,” Kieren said, but withered under Simon’s gaze. “Not much,”

“Liar,” Simon said, leaning in.

The sun disappeared from the horizon as Kieren’s lips met Simon’s, and Kieren was aware that he was going to have purple face paint all over his mouth, but in the cool summer evening, with distant cheering in the background, with the smell of barbeques in the air, with the man he loved holding him like he never planned to let go, he didn’t care. He grinned into the kiss, feeling Simon grin in return, and suddenly eternity didn’t seem so lonely.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [the 2015 In the Flesh advent calendar](http://intheflesh-art.tumblr.com/post/134878080830/advent-calendar-december-9th), but this idea has been in my head since series 2 ended.  
> Thank you so much to [andyinfurs](http://andyinfurs.tumblr.com/) for the wonderful art that goes along with this advent calendar entry - it was a pleasure collaborating with you!  
> Come hang out on tumblr! http://trshblg.tumblr.com/


End file.
